


Worth the Wait

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-08
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:25:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been pining for Mycroft for a year now. It's time to make a move. If only Mycroft weren't so terribly oblivious about it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth the Wait

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Тот, кого стоит ждать](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1217098) by [Jiminy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiminy/pseuds/Jiminy)



> Thanks to my wonderful beta [kholl](kholly.livejournal.com). :)

They say that siblings are either frighteningly alike or entirely different.

John thinks _they_ haven't got a single clue. Because it really isn't as easy as that, is it?

Sibling dynamics are something absolutely fascinating. It all depends on whether they were close as children, how many years separate them, what activities they participated in together and alone, what friends they made, what schools they went to and so many more factors John can't even begin to imagine.

Harriet and John both like to think that they're complete opposites, like day and night. But isn't thinking that very same thing common ground already?

It is equally confusing when John tries to compare the Holmes brothers.

On the one hand, Sherlock and Mycroft seem to be quite different.

Because there is Sherlock – energetic, self-destructive, reckless, changeable like the weather, sucking you in like a black hole.  
And there is Mycroft – calm, controlled, planning, consistent, truly a force to be reckoned with.

On the other hand, Sherlock and Mycroft seem to be very much alike.

Both of them incredibly intelligent and observing, giving you the feeling that they know everything about you and thn some. Both of them dramatic and childish when it comes to their supposed rivalry. Both of them quite handsome and charming – if they so choose.

Despite of his analysis, though, John cannot understand why he loves one of them like a brother and the other like a – well. John hasn't really figured that part out yet.

All he knows is that Sherlock is brilliant, wonderful and vital, but in many aspects very much like a child. John thinks Sherlock spoke the truth when they first met – relationships are not, and will probably never be, his area; simply because he isn't _made_ for caring for another person, for putting them first. It is why Sherlock needs brothers, needs father and mother figures, needs people that love him unconditionally. Which, let's face it, is only truly possible with family members and not lovers.

Lovers will always need their feelings to be returned; will need to be reassured that they are indeed valued and cherished. In a family dynamic, that isn't always necessary.

John thinks Mycroft would do well in relationships. Mycroft knows how people work, knows that paying attention to them is important to make them comfortable and to put them at ease. Granted, Mycroft is also prone to manipulating people, to pulling the strings like a puppet master. But John is confident that, with the right person, Mycroft would make for an excellent, tender and loving partner.

Which is why, after one year of knowing and secretly pining for the other man, John decides to make his move.

He is fairly sure he's waited long enough to establish that one, Mycroft is currently single and two, is mostly interested in people of the same sex.

Which is good. Because that does include John, doesn't it?

The only real problem left is just _how_ John is supposed to get the man's attention. Oh, he's probably being watched constantly, John is sure of that. But that's not the kind of attention he's looking for, this obsessive, controlling, overprotective alertness.

No. John would like Mycroft to be romantically interested. John would like to ask Mycroft for dinner, would like to walk through the park with him, would like to kiss him by candlelight. John has always been a big romantic. Quite embarrassing, really, maybe especially so for a soldier.

In any case, though, John doesn't know just how he should approach somebody like Mycroft.

Above all, Mycroft is incredibly busy. All the time. On the few occasions he shows up at Baker Street or even at a crime scene, Mycroft will be busy bickering with Sherlock. John thinks it's quite endearing, really, but not at all beneficial for pursuing a relationship with the man.

What John needs would be some alone time with Mycroft. John needs to talk to him for a bit, do a bit of innocent flirting.

So John starts to watch out for opportunities.

There aren't a lot of them. A sadly small amount, really. It's a bit discouraging, to say the least, because John simply doesn't know how to get rid of Sherlock when Mycroft is around, simply doesn't know how to distract Mycroft from the matter at hand and change the tracks of their conversation in favour of something more love-related.

But there are a few chances, at least. And John is determined to make excellent use of them.

"Would you care for a cup of tea?" John asks him one night when Mycroft enters 221B only to be confronted with the fact that Sherlock has fallen asleep on the couch.

Mycroft knows his brother hardly ever sleeps and thus is quite averse to the idea of waking him until it is absolutely necessary. And apparently, Mycroft has some time, at least half an hour, until he will have to wake Sherlock, tell him the latest news and leave for work once more.

So John offers him tea. Mycroft accepts and they retreat into the kitchen, voices hushed so as not to disturb the sleeping Sherlock.

"You look tired," John remarks as he hands Mycroft a steaming mug, which he accepts with a grateful nod.

Only Mycroft Holmes would manage to look entirely elegant and _right_ sitting in the kitchen with a bright red tea mug in his hand and surrounded by several types of experiments in different stages of either decay or growth.

It's one of the many little things John likes about him.

"It's nothing," Mycroft replies easily, eyes attentive and fixed casually on John's hands which are currently busy adding sugar to his own mug. John likes a bit of sugar in his tea and wonders what kind of deductions Mycroft might draw from that. "Just work. The usual, really."

John could say something along the lines of _You're very much like Sherlock that way – both of you work yourselves to the bone._ But he doesn't, because not everything is about Sherlock and if this is going to work, Mycroft and he will have to find some other topic to talk about.

"The usual, is it? And what would that be for you? Saving thousands of people's lives? Manipulating diplomats into agreeing with your agendas? Saving the economy?"

"Maybe," is all Mycroft says, but he smiles into his tea and looks very relaxed indeed.

John chuckles at his secrecy.

"What do you do when you don't work?"

Mycroft seems to have to think that over for quite some time.

"I don't have much free time at my disposal," he admits, but where other people would have sounded wistful, he merely seems to accept his fate. "The little I have I spend watching my brother. I do have a few things I like doing, though."

John smiles, glad Mycroft doesn't linger on the topic of Sherlock.

"What kinds of things?" he enquires between two sips of tea – warm and sweet, very much like their current conversation.

"Going to the theatre is something I enjoy. Reading, on occasions. And, though I know it sounds odd, riding my bicycle."

John hides his grin behind his own tea mug when he imagines Mycroft, all three-piece-suit and umbrella, riding a bicycle equipped with a small wicker basket and a pretty little silver bell.

Mycroft narrows his eyes a bit, but doesn't seem to be too offended by John's amusement.

"It does sound a bit odd," John admits.

It also sounds absolutely adorable. John wishes they were already at a point where riding their bicycles through the park, Mycroft's basket filled with picnic stuffs, would be an option.

Really, kind of embarrassing, this romantic streak of his.

"How about you, John? I know all about your acquaintances and skills, but oddly enough, next to nothing about things you enjoy doing."

John is pleasantly surprised that Mycroft is showing interest in him personally. He is just about to tell Mycroft all about his hobbies when Sherlock's voice floats into the room.

"I know why you're here, Mycroft. Stop pestering John and tell me what you've found."

In moments like these, John hates Sherlock. But that's normal, considering he loves Sherlock like a brother. Siblings hate each other on occasions, after all, don't they?

The next time Mycroft and he have a proper talk without Sherlock interfering is at a crime scene, almost two months after their little tête-à-tête over tea.

Granted, it is probably not the most romantic situation, because John is sitting in the back of an ambulance, pressing a compress against his forehead which is bleeding from where their latest murderer decided to cut John with a knife. It won't scar, probably, but it does burn quite a bit.

Mycroft, who has apparently grown tired of arguing with a Sherlock on sedatives – because Sherlock has managed to be cut a bit more deeply than John and stitches seem to be in order – is now standing in front of John, watching him bleed.

"Nasty business," he states, idly tapping his umbrella against the concrete.

"Just work. The usual, really," John replies and watches Mycroft smile who has, no doubt, picked up on John's deliberate choice of words.

"You never did tell me what your hobbies are, John," he says, slipping so casually back into their conversation as if it had been hours and not months ago.

"I didn't, did I?" John thinks that maybe, this might be a good time for a bit of manipulating on his part. Or at least, for making this conversation work to his advantage. "Sherlock is probably going to be out of it for tonight. If you care to keep me company over dinner instead, I could tell you all about it."

Mycroft blinks. And blinks again. It's the first time John sees him confused and he can't help but smile at the slightly lost expression on Mycroft's face. Too soon though, he is once more surrounded by an air of _I control everything and everyone around me._

"No free dinner at your disposal, without Sherlock calling in a few favours I suppose?" he asks.

 _No_ , John wants to say. _No, that's not it, not at all. I just want to get to know you. I want to spend an evening with you that doesn't involve me bleeding or Sherlock interrupting our conversation._

What he says is, "Maybe."

Again, Mycroft catches the allusion instantly. He smiles and inclines his head.

"I should be able to spare some time for you later tonight. Seven o'clock, yes? How do you feel about roast venison?"

John's smile is probably stupidly bright and inappropriate, considering that he's been cut by a murderer's dingy knife and Sherlock is currently being stitched up somewhere across from them.

"Sounds lovely," he replies and Mycroft returns his smile.

Being Mycroft Holmes, he knows exactly what degree of brightness is appropriate at the moment. John wants to kiss the perfect little smile off the other man's mouth.

He doesn't, of course, but he does end up choosing his best shirt and pair of trousers for their date. Which isn't really a date, because Mycroft thinks John was just looking for an excuse for free food. It's a bit embarrassing, really, but Mycroft _has_ agreed without seeming to be put-off, so maybe it counts a bit.

The black car is waiting at the kerb when John leaves 221, with Mycroft holding the car door in a loose grip.

"Ready, Dr Watson?" he asks, ever the perfect gentleman.

"Quite ready, Mr Holmes," John replies and gets into the car.

The restaurant is quiet and cosy. The venison might be the most delicious thing John has ever tasted. And Mycroft, well – Mycroft is oddly talkative after two glasses of excellent red wine.

"There's just something about the North sea that I find fascinating," he is currently saying, holding his glass in a perfect grip. "It's so harsh and wilful. Have you ever been to the coast of Denmark during a storm? I have never felt such forces of nature." He pauses. "Am I making sense at all?"

John laughs.

"Perfect sense," he assures him. "Harsh and wilful, I get it. It is why I like the Afghan desert – even in spite of the memories. It's wild and untamed and utterly beautiful."

Mycroft nods in agreement, raising his glass.

"To the beauty that is mother Earth," he says and John clinks their glasses together.

"To the beauty," he responds, looking at Mycroft.

John wonders if the other man realises that the most beautiful thing in the room is he himself, cheeks slightly flushed by the alcohol and smile more open than John has ever seen it on him.

Later, when Mycroft's driver brings them back to Baker Street and Mycroft takes the time to walk John to the door, John thinks this might be the moment – the one they like to play up in the movies, with the suggestive offer of coffee and a long, passionate kiss on the stairs.

But life isn't a movie and in the end, they part with an incredibly awkward handshake.

Not a date, then.

Still – at least, John's hand doesn't stop tingling until he falls asleep. Which is something, he supposes.

Lucky for John, he doesn't have to wait yet another two months to talk to Mycroft. Actually, it is only three days later that he sees the man again. As always, the circumstances are not the most romantic, but by now, John has accepted that whatever is going on is not very conventional in the first place.

Sherlock has sent John to Mycroft's office to demand some CCTV footage for his current case. Mycroft, with a sigh that speaks of the terrible burden Sherlock can be in Mycroft's opinion, asks his nameless – or nameful – assistant to fetch what Sherlock is looking for.

Which leaves the two of them with a few minutes of spare time.

"I rather enjoyed our dinner on Tuesday," John tells him honestly, trying to convey just how much with a warm smile.

Mycroft, however, seems a bit distracted.

"Yes, yes, quite nice," is all he replies.

His eyes are fixed on something outside and John, confused by Mycroft's behaviour, follows the man's gaze out of the window, only to see absolutely nothing of interest there.

"I looked at some photographs of the Danish coast on the internet earlier," John offers after a few minutes. "It's really very beautiful, just like you said."

"Very beautiful, yes," Mycroft agrees, but doesn't once turn his head until his assistant returns with a DVD containing the footage Sherlock has asked for.

"See you soon, I suppose?" John tries one last time, but Mycroft only nods, eyes now focused on some probably highly secret file on top of his desk.

John tries not to be disappointed. Emphasis on tries.

That night, John sits in front of his laptop, typing up old cases for his blog when a _ping_ announces the arrival of a new e-mail. John is actually quite proud that he has managed to make his computer alert him like that and clicks the bouncing symbol with an air of someone who has accomplished something grand.

The sender is a strange string of numbers and letters. A tad suspicious but ultimately curious, John opens the message.

It's a photograph of the Afghan desert at night, dark sky full of stars, more than one could ever see from London. Underneath, there's a short message.

 _I can only return your compliments regarding taste when it comes to finding beauty in nature. It really is gorgeous down there, isn't it?  
I do apologise for being rather short spoken earlier. I was merely thinking and didn't realise you were trying to make a bit of conversation.  
Am I forgiven?_

 _-MH_

Grinning from ear to ear, John carefully types out a reply.

 _Of course. It's all right, really. I thought you were looking rather distracted.  
Which is your job after all, isn't it? Being busy?_

For a moment, John hesitates, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

 _Too busy for coffee?_

 _-John_

After five minutes of contemplation, John finally clicks the send-button and huffs a sigh of relief.

"What are you huffing about?" Sherlock immediately asks, looking up from where he is looking at hair samples in the kitchen. "Not your blog again, is it? I'm quite tired of your overly dramatic tales. I wish you would stop."

"Not the blog, no," John responds, way too good-humoured to be annoyed with Sherlock's provocations.

"What is it then? You're grinning like a madman. Any particular reason you've chosen to look at the screen like a raving lunatic?"

John wonders what Sherlock would say if he told him the truth: _Your brother. I think I love him._

"E-mails," is all he says in the end. Which isn't a lie, precisely.

Mycroft sends his reply the next morning, stating that no, he isn't too busy for coffee at all. Which is how they end up in the prettiest little café John has ever been to, which also offers quite delicious little muffins and scones.

They talk about everything and nothing in particular, which John enjoys very much. It feels like they have been close for years, like they are completely comfortable with each other when really, given the number of "dates" and lack of personal contact the year before, it should all still be rather awkward.

Not that John is complaining, not at all. He just wishes they would move on from this phase of odd friendship to something _more_.

John knows it's probably going to be him who has to make the next, big step because Mycroft seems to be rather oblivious to the very obvious indications that John wants this to be a date.

A proper one.

Luckily, even Mycroft is only human, and ends up with a bit of clotted cream on his chin. With a fond smile, John leans over the table to brush his thumb over Mycroft's skin, catching the stray cream with his finger.

For a moment, Mycroft freezes, cup of coffee halfway to his mouth and eyes fixed on John, who by now feels like he's pushed it too far too quickly and can't stop the blush from creeping onto his cheeks.

"Sorry," he mumbles, feeling sheepish and stupid for doing what he had done. "There was… yeah."

But Mycroft doesn't laugh at him, neither does he leave or tell John that he really isn't interested in him at all.

Instead, he slowly brushes his own thumb over his chin, tracing the spot where John's has been only seconds earlier.

Eventually an expression crosses his face that John can only describe as _Ah, so_ this _is what this has been all about, yes?_

 __Then, he reaches over the table to place his warm, steady hand over John's. Just like that, without another word.

The hand never leaves until all the coffee has either been drunk or gone cold. When they stand and leave the café, Mycroft's hand carefully but quite determinedly curls around John's.

They don't take the car this time, but walk home instead, holding hands like a pair of silly teenagers. Only that John doesn't feel silly at all, but quite like he's found something precious.

This time, the moment on the stairs is a fair bit more magical, because John gets to kiss Mycroft before he leaves.

Granted, it is a rather chaste kiss, on the far edge of Mycroft's mouth really, but it's a kiss and Mycroft's eyes crinkle with fondness when John pulls away.

John all but dances up the stairs and into the flat – only to be confronted with Sherlock, arms crossed over his chest where he is standing by the windows. Undoubtedly, Sherlock has watched the whole scene through the curtain like the nosy man he is.

"You and Mycroft?" he says, sounding like he is saying _Fish-flavoured ice-cream?_ or something equally disgusting instead.

John immediately gets defensive.

"Yes. Mycroft and I," he replies, glaring at Sherlock – just to make sure he gets the right idea, which is that John doesn't give a damn about what Sherlock has to say about this because it isn't _any_ of his business.

But Sherlock surprises him by smiling – if a bit sourly.

"Very well," he says, sounding like a father allowing his son to stay up late – just this once. "At least, you've chosen someone smart."

Which is probably the nicest thing he will ever say about John's taste in men. Understandable, as complimenting him on that means indirectly complimenting Mycroft, which is something Sherlock will never be able to do, as far as John can tell.

It's more than he asked for and, acting on an impulse and on that wonderfully giddy feeling he is still sporting over the kiss, John moves to embrace his friend, if only briefly.

Sherlock manages an awkward pat on John's shoulder and mumbles something that sounds an awfully lot like _As long as you're happy._

The kiss changes everything - and nothing, really.

Mycroft, as busy as ever, hardly finds the time to meet up with John.

When for one week, John doesn't hear anything from him, doesn't even get an e-mail, John panics, thinking that Mycroft has been over thinking their – whatever they have now.

Eventually, Sherlock has mercy on him and tells John that, going by the time of year and state of Mycroft's hair the last time he has seen him, Mycroft is, most likely, currently somewhere in the south of Asia where sending private e-mails or making intimate phone calls are really not the smartest things a British government official could be doing.

This turns out to be true. John is still a bit angry with Mycroft for not telling him in advance, but can't resist the incredibly thoughtful and very romantic _I'm-terribly-sorry-not-to-have-informed-you-of-my-absence_ -present the man brings him from South Asia – a deep blue flask covered in glittering, silver spots.

It is filled with sand.

"Your personal Afghan desert," Mycroft comments, looking the tiniest bit nervous about how his present might be received.

Which is how Mycroft and John share their first _proper_ kiss, tongue and all. Mycroft is a good kisser, quite dominant though John has expected that. Mycroft likes being in control and taking the lead in spite of his initial obliviousness – kissing is no exception.

They spend one and a half months doing just that – kissing each other. On the mouth, on the cheek, on the temple; everywhere that is appropriate for the current level of their relationship.

It's nice.

After six weeks of kissing and innocent touching, though, even John, who has never been the kind of man to rush it when it comes to sexual advances in relationships, and prides himself on having good control over his more primal urges, gets a bit impatient.

Apparently, it is time to make another move, as Mycroft seems to be quite happy with spending the rest of his life kissing John and doing nothing else. Not that John minds the kissing – it's very, very nice.

A bit too nice, sometimes, which is why, one night, over a delicious Austrian strudel they both share after dinner, John lets his hand wander past Mycroft's knee and rests it somewhere on his upper leg in a more than obvious hint for what he would like to do with Mycroft, if he is so inclined.

John enjoys the way Mycroft's breath catches and uses the opportunity to feed the man another bite of the sweet pastry.

"You look marvellous when you eat," he murmurs eventually and watches Mycroft blush delicately as John starts rubbing circles against the inner part of Mycroft's thigh.

The man is definitely not uninterested, John is sure.

That night, nothing further happens, though. They part with a kiss, no more passionate than the ones they've shared before. But John decides to take Mycroft's hand briefly squeezing his behind as a good sign.

A very good sign, as it turns out, because not a week later, John is lying on his back, stretched out on the bed in Mycroft's ridiculously spacious flat, not wearing any trousers nor a shirt with Mycroft, equally undressed, looming over him and enthusiastically kissing and sucking at John's neck.

John brushes his hands over Mycroft's chest in response, enjoying the feeling of flushed skin under his rough palms. He explores Mycroft upper body cautiously, taking in every muscle, every freckle and every hair, until he feels brave enough to slip his hands into Mycroft's pants to feel the man's arousal.

John is fascinated at the look of abandon on Mycroft's face, at the utter loss of control the man allows to happen, if only in the bedroom. And just as John thought, all those months ago, Mycroft is a very careful, considerate lover, mindful of his partner's wishes and needs.

They don't last long, neither of them, which is understandable, considering how long they've build up to this, how long they have danced around each other. But it's nice – finally being so close and so very intimate.

And John really doesn't regret all the waiting and the careful courtship when Mycroft climaxes with John's name on his lips, John following shortly after whispering Mycroft's name instead.

 _Worth it_ , is all he can think when he lies next to the man who probably is the British government, but at the moment merely a warm, comfortable weight against John's chest. Brushing careful fingers through the sleeping man's hair, John watches the stars through the bedroom window, nearly fading next to a bright moon.

 _Entirely worth the wait._


End file.
